Lowlife
by A. Tenmeadows
Summary: AU. Same Universe as Life's A Rodeo. The story of how Santana and Rachel met, as requested by my dear friend Cassicio. Song by Theory of a Deadman. Santana/Rachel, 2-shot. Femslash. Don't like, don't read.
1. Reel 'Em In

**Hello again, chums! This two-shot is a little gift for my good friend Cassicio, who commented in her last Life's A Rodeo review about wanting to know the history between Rachel and Santana.**

**I wrote it in Santana's point of view, since a lot of readers commented on how much they liked reading the first chapter of I Still Care For You.**

**So, my dearest Cassicio and any others who happen to be interested… Enjoy. : )**

My brown leather boots leave behind a trail of dust in the unpaved parking lot of the bar I'm playing tonight. It's so damn cold that I can see my breath in the air as I tip my matching chestnut cowboy hat to Johnny, the muscular, scruffy-looking bodyguard that stands resolute outside Screamin' Willie's. February in Ohio's a bitch; it's a fucking miracle that I'm not knee-deep in snow at the moment. He just grunts to me from underneath the brim of his own weather-worn hat before spitting a wad of tobacco at my feet. I just snort and push past him; we both know Johnny give an arm, a leg, and his first born son to sleep with me. It's unlikely that he'd ever turn me away.

Flipping my long raven locks over the shoulder of my North Face fleece, I step across the wooden threshold and onto the beer-soaked floorboards of the club. Thankfully, it's nice and warm inside the two-storey building, the heat radiating off of the bodies of drunken patrons. They're loud and rowdy, as always, which means it'll probably be a long set. The place is packed tonight, and I grin at this, knowing that it's my fault that the bar is almost full to bursting.

Everyone wants a piece of me… They always have.

I shrug off my jacket and hang it among a pile of others on a line of rusty pegs next to the doorjamb. Some awful Rascal Flatts cover band is onstage at the far end of the club, the lead singer completely butchering the second verse of _Unstoppable_. As I weave through the sea of large, sweaty torsos, I toss a wave to Chaz, the flamboyantly homosexual bartender that's currently serving a roaring group of customers crammed into one of the small booths along the wall. Chaz and I go way back… He's probably about two hundred pounds soaking wet, but the kid is a third degree black belt. Needless to say, he's nice to have on my side in a bar fight.

When I finally reach the stage, the floppy-haired vocalist ceases his murdering of the perfectly good country classic and immediately hands the microphone to me. His brown eyes are wide as he regards me, like he's turning it over to the Queen of England or something. Then again, I am royalty in this place… A signed action shot of me at last year's Three Hills Rodeo is hanging over the bar. The musicians onstage stand abruptly and move offstage while I step up onto the hardwood and into the glow of the club's balcony spotlight.

"Good evening, Screamin' Willie's," I simper into the microphone, gaining the hoots and hollers of every man and woman in the bar. Behind me, my own band is setting up, having been waiting in the wings for me to arrive. It's a regular thing, my performing here; everyone in Columbus knows that when Santana Lopez is in town, she gives a set at her favorite dive bar in Ohio.

"You all ready to have a good time tonight?" I call to the crowd before raising a fist in the air. I'm met with an overwhelming roar of approval from the mob, followed by a stampede toward the rickety stage. As always, all the girls end up in the front row, screeching adulation at the top of their lungs.

"'Tana, I love you!" An intoxicated blonde shrieks, her breasts nearly popping out of her white t-shirt as she jumps up and down in excitement. I throw her a nonchalant wink, and the second I do, she loses consciousness, slumping into the arms of one of the women behind her.

The mass seems to love the fact that one look from me can make a grown woman faint, and they roar even louder at the display. I, however, am not even looking at the blonde bimbo anymore. My eyes have zeroed in on the woman she landed on: long, curly brown hair, mesmerizing brown eyes, and a smile that makes my heart stop. She serves my wink right back at me, and now I'm the one who's feeling faint. I know that as soon as I finish this set, I'm going to take that beautiful girl into the bathroom behind the stage and ruin her. I'm going to tear her apart with my fingers and my mouth, and she's going to be screaming so loud that my audience will be able to hear her over the house music. She reads my thoughts clearly through my eyes, and when she licks her lips, I know that I have to get through this gig as quickly as possible.

"Nate, what the hell are you waitin' on? Let's give 'em a show!" I bellow to my drummer. He begins pounding into the kick drum behind me, and my lead guitarist Howie follows suit, powering a hard riff through the Gibson amp. My eyes never leave my mystery girl's, even as I start thumping my heel against the stage to the rhythm. I grip the microphone with my left hand and give her grin before I let my voice shake the building.

"_I'm thrilled to be a hillbilly,  
Hate to have to deal with me;  
Probably just end in a fight.  
No sleeves, can't read, doesn't even phase me.  
Naked, sleeping like a baby tonight._"

Half of the patrons in the club are shouting the lyrics right along with me, including the beautiful girl in the front row. Her smile is radiant as she sings with me, and she holds the note on the last word of the verse just like I do, which makes me think she's been to one of my shows before. I quickly shake the thought out of my mind… there's no way I would have missed a beautiful girl like her.

"_A gun-packing, bitch-smacking;  
__Mess with me, it's going to happen,_  
_Loving life, living in sin._  
_Passed out on the floor, 'sorry' just don't work no more,_  
_Giving up on giving in._"

When I finish the next line, I step away from the microphone and give the crowd the finger, to which they punch the air and throw me a rousing "Ah, fuck it!" Even my little siren in the front row joins them in their cry, and this makes me grin from ear to ear.

Good God, I love being famous.

"_'Cause I'm a lowlife, and I'm lovin' it.  
No, I'm never going to change as long as I live.  
I'm a lowlife, so fuckin' deal with it.  
'Cause deep down, I really know that everyone is._"

I hold out the microphone to the audience, the lot of them practically vibrating the ground with their rhythmic stomping along to the music. They don't miss a beat, hollering the second chorus with power. However, amidst the drunken slur of words, I hear a voice that's clear as a bell. It's commanding, so much so that it moves something in me. My ears prick up and follow the sound, and I'm appalled to find that it's coming from the breathtaking girl I plan on fucking in the bathroom later. She's belting out the lyrics like she's in a recording studio, and I can't resist extending my hand to her.

She blushes slightly and allows me to pull her onstage. I thrust my own microphone into her hand and grab Howie's before giving her a reassuring nod. As soon as I do, she lets it all loose on the crowd, and customers of Screamin' Willie's doesn't know what hit them.

"_'Cause we're lowlives, and we're lovin' it.  
We got the whole damn world in the palm of our hand.  
'Cause we're lowlives, so fuckin' deal with it.  
No, you can't change something that you don't understand._

_Living it up, living it up,_  
_Being a lowlife._"

I'm so aroused by her performance that I can't even stand it, and the heat coursing through my veins causes me to lurch forward and capture those soft, cherry red lips with my own. The audience erupts in deafening cheers when my smoking hot partner finishes out the song. My hands slide into the bends of her hips and grasp the denim belt loops of her jeans. Her own fingers wind themselves into my hair, knocking my hat off of my head and into the mass of women, who tear it apart like lions feeding on a zebra. Before she can deepen the kiss, I pull away and speak directly into the shell of her ear.

"What's your name, babe?"

She giggles flirtatiously in my arms when my warm breath fans out across her cheek.

"Rachel. Rachel Berry."

**AN: Yes, it will be a two-shot, so stay tuned, darlings! : )**

**Santana's song, ****_Lowlife_****, is sung by the incomparable Theory of a Deadman. Check it out if you haven't already.**


	2. Throw 'Em Back

**Hello again! Here I am, back with the second chapter of Lowlife. The twelfth chapter of Life's A Rodeo should be up sometime tonight as well. Enjoy. : )**

"So where are you from?" I grunt into the heated flesh of her neck as I let my lips explore.

"Born in Lima, raised in Marion," Rachel husks out before she fists her hands in my hair to press my face deeper against her skin. "You?"

"Lima, born and raised," I murmur while tugging her shirt up over her head and letting it fall to the dirty tile floor.

The women's bathroom behind the stage was the most private place in the club, and I didn't want anyone else walking in on this moment. I waited through a seven song set for this exact moment… And now that I finally have Rachel pressed up against the blue chipped paint of the bathroom stall door, I know it was worth every second. She gropes at me, her fingers finding purchase on the collar of my shirt and drag my lips back to hers. She's the aggressor in the exchange, and I can't say I've ever been this turned on by anyone.

I bring both my hands up and begin to knead circles into her bra-covered breasts with my palms, causing her to mewl and whine in ecstasy. Rachel's hands are not idle, a fact that I only notice when I feel a gust of air across my lower back. My pants fall to my shins, since there was no way in hell I was taking off my boots in this dump.

"Got any siblings?" I ask as I make quick work of her pink lace bra and let it join her shirt on the floor.

"No!" she cries out when I start to batter her nipples roughly with my tongue. "What… about… you?"

"One adoptive brother, Sam. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen, his family took me in," I say around her delectable breast. She tastes so wonderful, and it almost saddens me that this will be a one time occurrence.

"That's… really sad," Rachel pants before I yank her own jeans down her thighs and bury two fingers in her fire engine red lace thong.

"Eh, it's not a big deal," I husk out as I swirl the tip of my tongue around the shell of her ear. Her knees buckle at the sensation, and it's a good thing the stall's door is at her back, because in the state we're in, I'm sure we would have tumbled to the filthy tile.

I take the opportunity to begin working tight, firm circles into her pleasure center, causing her to arch her lithe body into mine as she sought more of my touch. She keens wildly when I use each pass of my digits to dip into her entrance, and finally, Rachel lets her own hand make her way into my boy briefs. But instead of teasing me as I'm doing her, she enters me without preamble, two of her fingers filling me to the hilt.

"God, Rachel," I moan as she thrusts into me, curling her fingers on every upstroke.

My teasing is no longer satisfying me or her, so I envelop my own digits in her velvety heat. Her scream of bliss is deafening, and she starts to pump her own fingers in time with mine. I let my thumb add a firm pressure to her pleasure center, and that combined with my increasingly rapid thrusting has Rachel in a mess of incoherent groans and pleas.

"That's it," I whisper into her ear as she bucks and grinds her hips down against my hand. "Sing for me, beautiful."

My wrist is beginning to ache painfully, and I can't wait to tell Dr. Holliday how I aggravated my carpal tunnel this time. With three more synchronized thrusts, both of our worlds flash white hot, our bodies shuddering violently with the force and the speed at which our release rampages through us. Rachel's small frame bears all my weight in that euphoric moment, and when I finally come back to Earth, she's brushing a strand of hair away from my face and smiling at me tenderly. I'm still a little hazy, but even in my post-orgasmic stupor, I recognize the look in those big brown eyes.

That's the look that every girl gets right before they ask me to spend the night with them, cuddling and kissing and all that other sweet shit. That's the look that every girl gets right before they ask when I'll be in town again, and tell me they'll be there when I am. That's the look every girl gets right before I pull myself away from them and say that I don't plan on ever seeing them again…

Hope.

And in Rachel's eyes, that look flourishes with the innocence of a fangirl who's just fulfilled a dream by having sex with a rodeo star/rock artist… It just kills me to see it.

But I have a job to do and a lifestyle to maintain. A girl like Rachel could never handle being with me the way I am… 'Cause I'm a lowlife. And I don't plan to change that any time soon. My life right now is just too much damn fun.

"Well, " I say as I draw myself to full height and begin to put myself back together. "This was fun. You're an awesome fuck."

I can tell I've really hurt her; her facial expression drops from pleasant to devastated. A pregnant pause falls between us as I shimmy my pants up onto my hips and brush off the grit from the cold tile beneath our feet. Tears form her eyes, but she squares her jaw and slaps me hard across the face before I can see them fall. Part of me feels awful for acting like this, but the other part knows that this is a necessary evil. I've never been one to play games or lead women on. I don't have a girl in every state like most rodeo riders. I just "love it and leave it", as Sam likes to say. It's simple, and it's the path of least resistance.

Still, I do have a heart, and every now and then I find a girl that I know could be good for me. But, out of habit, I fuck her and leave the city, my own personal form of self-sabotage.

"The rumors about you were true," Rachel grumbles while she pulls her own clothes back on roughly. "Your songs are biographies, not anthems. You really are the selfish asshole your lyrics claim you are."

I shoot her a crooked smile and let my index finger drag along her clenched jaw. "Hey, at least I'm consistent, right?"

The look of distain and sadness in Rachel's tearful eyes makes my chest hurt, but nevertheless, I unlock the stall door and push past her into the restroom. I can see her in the dingy mirror in front of me as I wash my hands in the soap scum covered sink. She just standing there, leaning against one of the metal walls and head tilted backward, her eyes glaring at the ceiling. I turn the low pressure faucet off and wipe my dripping hands on my pants.

"See you around, kid," I say before throwing her a noncommittal wave and pressing through the swinging door of the bathroom. I'm immersed in the bustle of the club and the pulsing of the music playing over the sound system, and when I turn around, Rachel's not there.

She's just another notch in the bedpost… And the sad part is, I'll sleep like a baby tonight.


End file.
